


Wandering Sage

by autumnstwilight (sewohayami)



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Blind Ignis Scientia, Blood and Injury, Canon Disabled Character, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, One Shot, Original Character Death(s), Post-Canon, Zine: Sagefire, implied child neglect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 00:48:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19801255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sewohayami/pseuds/autumnstwilight
Summary: Born in the dark and raised in the dawn, Petra has only ever known the Outpost, a collection of decaying buildings surrounded by desert. Her first attempt to venture into the wider world leads to an encounter with a silver-eyed stranger.(Originally published in Sagefire: An Ignis Scientia Zine)





	Wandering Sage

The outpost had never been large, but unlike other places that had blossomed under the light of the Dawn, the sun had only caused it to wither. It had once been a mining town, and later the tunnels, home to bats and bugs, provided a valuable source of fertilizer for farms during the Long Night. Apart from that unglamorous advantage, it held little appeal, and the young and able left for the cities when the sun rose. Remaining were the old and stubborn, and those children too small to strike out on their own.

Petra walked barefoot through the blowing dust from one end of the outpost to the other, an exercise that took barely a minute even on her short legs. Beyond the edge lay the desert and the Road, which was forbidden to her, and she leaned forward, peering over that invisible boundary as though it were a cliff she were considering leaping from.

Estelle had followed the road. Born with the night, the night seemed to have sapped her color, leaving only the blue of her eyes and her mousy hair. In the dark, she had been bright, clever and canny, but since the dawn, she had been filled with listlessness that seeped out through her pores, fingertips drumming and drumming, scratches of fingernails on her arms.

Still, she had read the books to Petra. And when they ran out of books, she had taught her how to read the weather and the tracks of animals, about the Outpost and the Road and the line they mustn't cross, even as she herself stared into the distance, fingertips bouncing at her thighs. She was distant from everyone in a way, and so no one had been surprised the morning that she was gone.

It was then that Petra resolved to leave, too. Eight years had passed since the Dawn, that first sunrise that Petra had only water-thin memories of, but which the old people talked about with a reverence beyond her understanding. The Outpost was blowing away like dust in the wind, and if she must scatter, she would choose when.

The sun set again. At the edge of the invisible, she turned back.

_ Yes, now, _ the dawn seemed to say, and Petra gathered her things. The water was heavy, but she knew she would need it in the desert. The knife at her waist slapped against her leg. How far to the next town? The old people could give her a number, but it meant nothing to her. Their rusted vehicles, which never went further than their own fields, marked the edge.

She crossed a ridge, one that seemed a gentle rise when she was ascending, but blocked all view of the outpost when she looked back, and the desert spread before her. The sun peered over the distant cliffs, already fierce enough that her shirt was damp with sweat under her backpack. The scrub was dead and brown, and it crunched and snapped when a creature burst through it.

_ Voretooth! _ She had seen them before, dead and ready to be de-bristled, but never a live one, not this close. How horrible it was, beaded white eyes peering over a snout lined with jagged teeth. Something like a dog that had been reduced to bones and hastily reassembled, furless hide stretched taut over the skeleton. Its jaw hung open as it growled, dripping slobber into the sand. She drew her knife and yelled.

“Go! Get lost! Go away!”

Brandishing the knife, she planted her legs and waved her arms wide, trying to look as big as possible. The voretooth hunkered down, tensed like a coiled spring, and let out a yowl.

And the other two pounced. She was slammed to the ground, grit grazing her shoulders, and a slavering mouth seized the arm she threw up to shield her face. Though misshapen, the fangs pierced through flesh without resistance. Petra screamed, though most of the pain was yet to be felt. In that moment, her arm did not matter; it was the terror of keeping the monster away from her face that she felt foremost. Saliva and blood dripped onto her nose and cheeks, hot and foul. Her bones creaked under the strain. As she struggled, her other arm was seized and wrenched till the joint might pop, and a third set of teeth sank into her leg.

_ They'll tear me apart, _ she thought blankly, cold comprehension sinking in. Her body was still struggling on instinct alone, but there was little she could do but writhe like a pinned insect.

Then, mere moments after the savaging began, there was the cold thud of a dagger sinking between the eyes of the voretooth above her. Its body gave a final spasm before slumping on top of her, hot, heavy and bristly. The other two released their grip to evaluate this new threat, and the shadow of a figure fell across her, delivering a sharp kick to the ribs of one predator and a stab between the shoulderblades of the next.

The surviving voretooth bared its teeth, growling, before charging the attacker. He sidestepped effortlessly, then pivoted and grabbed the creature by the neck. The dagger in his hand sank into the voretooth’s throat, and blood poured onto the sand. It foamed red at the mouth, then went limp. The man let its body slump to the ground unceremoniously, retrieving the dagger that he had thrown and wiping both on the animal’s hide. Then he addressed Petra.

“You’re safe now. Allow me to inspect your wounds.”

He kneeled beside her and reached out cautiously. She saw his face for the first time, silver eyes and a jagged patch of discolored skin spreading from brow to cheekbone over his left eye, a smaller scar over the right. Sandy hair, with a streak of grey on the damaged side. He had a nice face, she thought, with an expression that radiated gentle concern even through the wildness of his scars.

“I’ll need to touch you for this. My apologies—I’ll work as quickly as I can. Tell me if anything hurts too much.” His hands reached out slowly, then came to a stop, as though he were discerning the position of her leg through touch alone.

_ He can’t see, _ she realized, a shock after his fierce grace in battle. Still dazed, she lay back and allowed his fingertips to gently prod at her shin and calf.

“No fractures. Seems to have missed the major arteries. This will need to be cleaned thoroughly, but for now…”

He removed a water canteen from his waist, and a length of bandaging from a pouch. After rinsing the wound, he bound it quickly and tightly, then turned his attention to her arms.

“May I?” he said, taking her hand.

She nodded— then, realizing her mistake, made a noise of acknowledgement. He cleaned and bandaged the wounds on her arms before his touch retreated.

“Does it hurt anywhere else?”

“No.”

“Do you feel nauseous? Sick, I mean? Dizzy?”

“No… I… I think I’m alright.”

“Good. Can you stand up for me?”

She rose, feeling heavy and sluggish. He handed her the water canteen.

“You’ve lost blood. Drink.”

She obeyed, and he turned his head toward the Outpost, as though listening for the wind sweeping across the plains. Could he hear, could he somehow feel, where the buildings jutted out of the land?

“It's that way,” she said, pointing, and immediately felt like a fool for doing so. But the man took a step forward, as though he already knew the direction, and said, “Thank you. Well, let us be off. Shall I carry you?”

“No. I mean… No, thank you. I can walk.” She didn't mean the note of petulance that slipped through in her voice, making her sound more childish than she wished.

“If you're sure. Don't be afraid to ask help from others, should you need it.” 

“What about you?” she asked.

“What about me?” the man responded mildly.

_ Who are you? What are you doing here? What happened to your face? Why do you talk like that? _ There were a thousand questions and none seemed appropriate to start with.

“Do you need it? Help, I mean.”

He smiled a little. “Kind of you, but I'm not in need of assistance right now. I shall let you know if that changes.”

“Oh.” She paused, feeling off-balance again. “You do have a name, don't you?”

“Ah, my apologies. Call me Ignis.”

“Ignis.” She turned the word over in her mouth. “What brings you here, Ignis?”

“Your compatriots at the outpost informed me that I might find wild sage around here. I came to investigate.”

Petra suspected that this was not entirely the truth, but given that Ignis had saved her, she didn’t argue. She followed him toward the Outpost, wincing as her weight fell on her injured leg. 

“May I ask why you left?” he said, after some moments.

She fumbled with the words. “I… I can’t stay there. Everyone’s leaving, except the old people, and they’ll be gone soon too. I don’t want to stay while everyone goes. Estelle—Estelle said…”

She trailed off. There were so many things Estelle had said. So many things she had taught Petra. So many moments spent together. How could she explain Estelle, everything Estelle was, why she mattered, to a man who had never met her? Any effort was futile.

“A friend of yours…?” Ignis asked, gently.

“Yes!” It still wasn’t enough, but there was a glimmer of understanding. “My best friend, but she left, she went away, and now…”

“I see.”

She wanted to object to that, to be obstinate and say,  _ No, you don’t! _ but something in his tone caused her to hold her tongue. Ignis seemed to have fallen into a ponderous silence regarding the matter. Hope fluttered in her chest. She expected an adult to simply take her back behind those invisible walls and order her to stay. But Ignis… Perhaps he did understand.

He moved at a measured pace. At first, she had thought it was because of his eyesight, but he had moved so swiftly in battle. It was for her sake, she realized with some chagrin.

As she watched, he snapped out of his contemplation with a movement that startled her. He reached for a plant that rose to knee-height, feeling out the shape of a leaf before crushing it between his fingers and raising it to his nose, inhaling sharply.

“To think that I'd find  _ you _ here…” He snapped his fingers. “I daresay this will make a perfect addition to… erm… nevermind.” His words trailed off, but he reached down to break off a few stems at the base.

Petra eyed him curiously. “Are you going to eat that?”

“No. Well, yes. Eventually. I had feared that this particular herb may have become extinct during the Night. I'll have these cuttings taken to a greenhouse for propagation.” 

“What things survive in places unseen…” he said, with the hint of a smile. He placed the cuttings in a pocket inside his jacket, and began to move on.

“Wait!” she said, hurrying to catch up, “Why are you here all alone? Isn’t it dangerous? Don’t you have friends?”

He turned his head toward her. “I do have friends. We can’t always be together, but they are my friends nonetheless.”

She hesitated, then pushed further, “A best friend?”

Ignis gave a slight smile. “A best friend? Indeed. Would you like to hear about him?”

She nodded, this time remembering to make a noise with the gesture. 

Ignis began.

“I once knew a prince who was yet to become King. He was strong and kind-hearted and good, even when the world was cruel. Together, we went on a journey so that he could become what he was born to be. What I always knew he could be. There were many things—some of them were happy, many difficult and painful. But we—his friends—remained by his side. Until the end.”

Petra gave him a look, “I didn’t ask you to tell me a story.”

“I assure you, it’s all true.”

“But the King’s dead! Everyone knows that… they all told me… You… you can’t—”

She met Ignis’ eyes, pale and unreadable. He seemed to be regarding her, head tilted, simply listening.

“It's just,” she said quietly, “how can you be best friends with someone who’s dead?”

And then she knew, deep inside herself, what had happened to Estelle, what she had always known and never seen. The restlessness, the longing, the wanderlust—all of it was replaced with a terrible hollow feeling. There was no point, no point in any of it. She’d never find what she once had.

But Ignis turned her way, with that same gentle smile as the first time he’d saved her. His voice was soft, but it never wavered. Something in it seemed immovable.

“I assure you, no mere trifle such as death will stop me from being friends with him. Do you think that anything is ever truly lost, so long as we remember it?”

His sightless gaze turned to the sun, shielded by one hand. She knew that he must feel the warmth of it, the stinging of the skin from its intensity, even as the dust blew around them.

“I say good morning to him each day when the sun rises and good night when it sets, and I live how he told me to, how I think would best make him proud. For as long as I live, his actions still affect the world, and so he is not truly gone.”

Petra wondered if it was true. No one had ever taught her such a thing. But no one here spoke much of the future, nor remembered the past. They simply let it all blow away.

As she contemplated, they crossed the rise and the Outpost came into view. The grown-ups were waiting for her, and shame curled in her stomach. Why was it now, that her eyes stung with tears? She hurried back, and was greeted with a stern nod.

“Well goodness. Expected she’d be dog meat by now.”

“It seems I arrived not a moment too soon. The voretooth were out hunting.”

One of the elders clicked his tongue, “Fool of a girl,” and Petra withered under his stare.

“Her injuries are not life-threatening, but there is the risk of infection and scarring, or nerve damage from the venom. Provided her legal guardians are in agreement, I can take her to the Crown City for ongoing treatment. From there—”

“We ain't got money. And she ain't got parents.”

There was a pause before Ignis spoke again, now with a chill note in his pleasant tone. “Then that simplifies things. I require consent from only one person.”

He kneeled in the dust, and Petra couldn't help but feel that, even with his whited-over eyes, he was looking at her more closely than anyone had in a long time.

“It's your choice,” he said, and with his words, the sun finally broke through the walls that had held her back. “Will you come with me?”

**Author's Note:**

> Some notes on things that were not included in the story for wordcount and pacing reasons:
> 
> I've left it up to the reader what exactly Ignis is doing here, and perhaps the simplest explanation is that he took to wandering in the wake of canon events, independently offering help where he can.
> 
> However, the backstory I gave as a guide to the illustrator for this piece is that he is indeed still associated with the Insomnian government and Lucian restoration efforts. He arrived at the Outpost in the morning, shortly after Petra left, as part of work gathering information on rural settlements and what kind of support they might need from the government. His arrival coincided with the residents realization that one of the kids was missing, and he offered to go find them, as most of the residents consider desert search-and-rescue to be a job for Hunters only.
> 
> I also initially imagined him wearing a simplified/updated version of a Lucian council robe, but told the illustrator that I didn't necessarily expect them to draw all that nonsense, and to feel free to put him in business casual instead (which they did, and he looks great in it, of course). But if anyone wants the mental image of 40!Ignis fighting a pack of voretooth in his fancy robes, there it is.


End file.
